


The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: Join me for this 26 part series of vignettes. Each is a stand-alone, but I promise they'll tie together nicely and romantically in the end. A new letter will be posted each night!





	1. A is for Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Join me for this 26 part series of vignettes. Each is a stand-alone, but I promise they'll tie together nicely and romantically in the end. A new letter will be posted each night!

She brings her lunch from home most days. Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine. 

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him. Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things. He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (_Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). _Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.


	2. B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably. Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting. On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his _hey Scullz,_ _wanna go one-on-one?_, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer. The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.


	3. C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back. With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise. His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they’re getting there. He hopes anyway.


	4. D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days. _Scully_ is Scully—strong, competent, loyal. But _Dana_ is an enigma. He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free. It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know. He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.


	5. E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really. But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse. The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly. Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls? Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas? He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek. 

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between. He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife? Girlfriend?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.


	6. F is for Friends

They use the term _friends_ sometimes. Usually it’s _partners_, occasionally _colleagues_, _coworkers_, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice. He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried. Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away? Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even _best _friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not _just_ anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything. 


	7. G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha. _Spin the Globe_ it was called. They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away. He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head. Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully. Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe. Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder. That was more extraordinary than any adventure.” 


	8. H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire. He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand. It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.


	9. I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip. He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. _Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes_ perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket. The nice thing about it? She doesn’t even pretend not to want it. She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in. They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub. She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.


	10. J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called _blazers_) have shrunk over the years. Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy. He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it. It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks. He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘_soon’_ will come.


	11. K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: _In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars.._. 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres. Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this: _In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. _

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks. It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.


	12. L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure. Scully loves lists. _Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy_… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head. 

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. _Personal Goals_. 

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. _Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds_ perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek. 

_1._ _Call Mom more often _

_2\. Reach out to Bill_

_3\. Volunteer at the church _

They’re all so wonderfully Scully. He’s not sure what else he expected. Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when: 

_15._ _Stop being afraid of my feelings_

and below that:

_16\. Mulder_

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal. 

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

_1._ _Scully _

_2\. Scully _

_3\. Scully…_

_372\. Scully…_

_1049\. Scully… _

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.


	13. M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day. He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

_The sun’ll come out tomorrow_, isn’t that how the song goes? Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of _Have a nice weekend, Mulder_, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe…”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.” He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons. 

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then. Tomorrow…” 

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.


	14. N is for No

He’s scared of the word _no_, its finality. _No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love…_ The word _no_ could mean the end of everything. Of all he’s seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk. She giggles. Bile rises in his throat.

_No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else_…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?” 

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…” She smiles gently at him—him _Mulder_, not him _Rick_— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall. 

He stands there, rooted in place, decides _no_ is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.


	15. O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal. Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer. Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket. He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be. The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.


	16. P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, _oh_, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail. 

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb. How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten. 

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that. 


	17. Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job. More than a career path. It’s a downright_ quest. _

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that. 

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch. 

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends. It astounds him really. 

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think _soon_ isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all. 


	18. R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel. She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking. It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending _I’m too tired to go back to my room _is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay. 

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel. She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.


	19. S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself. For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front. Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but _three_ buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible _something_ that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.


	20. T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes. She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one. She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum. It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest. 

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an _I should probably get going_. 

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseur is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.


	21. U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.” 

She’s got a point of course. They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve. But _umpteen_ is most definitely a word. 

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting. Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair. Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her. It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen…” 

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was _I love you_.


	22. V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (_I can’t think over the noise_ she says). He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized. There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn. Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between. They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left. Soft. The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured _stop_ when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with _loud_ altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her “It’s quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are.”


	23. W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe. Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed. Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch. 

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from. 

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again. 

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes. “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.” 

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.


	24. X is for X-Files

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does. It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too. They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner. It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery. She’s the very definition of an X-File. It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth. These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places. 

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields. The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.


	25. Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to. All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life. 

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill. Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.


	26. Z is for Zipper

He’s awoken by the sound of her skirt zipper, the dip of the mattress as she sits on the bed.

“Scully?” He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but the stillness in the air and a new moon slanting through the blinds suggest hours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I tried not to wake you…” He’s never heard her voice in his bedroom this late at night. It’s softer than he’d imagined. Younger. “It’s late. I’m not sure I should drive. Do you mind if I—” 

“Sure, yeah.” He props up on an elbow. “Do you want me to…” He motions toward the living room, still half-asleep but awake enough not to assume anything he shouldn’t. Hotel room sleepovers (which they’ve partaken in) are in a different category than apartment room sleepovers (which they haven’t), and he knows this.

“I don’t mind,” she answers in silhouette, slipping off her skirt, “…not if you don’t.” She’s stolen her way beneath the sheets before he has the presence of mind to offer her something to wear. 

“Of course not.” He can’t think of anything he’d mind less than Scully lying beside him in his bed, near enough he can smell this morning’s perfume still on her skin.

She settles, and is so close, her breaths tickle his bare shoulder. Once, twice, three times. He shudders. 

They’re quiet. He listens to her nighttime sounds—the swish of her hair against the pillow, the cadence of her breaths, the occasional wet slide of her tongue across her lips. He wishes he had his little recorder on the nightstand. He’d make a mixtape, label it _Sounds of Scully_ and play it every night for the rest of his life. 

He longs to touch her. A hand, a foot, even just the tip of a finger. 

They lie there long enough and silently enough he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but then she shifts. Or he shifts. Or maybe they both shift, but out of nowhere her still sweater-clad back spoons perfectly against his chest.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t readjust. Neither of them breathes.

“Is this… okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah, it’s…” The heel of her foot brushes his shin. “It’s nice.” 

Quiet again. His arm finds a place to rest wrapped around her waist. His thighs nudge her bottom. Her skirt is off, and possibly her nylons, too, but he thinks instead about her hair tickling his nose, her sweater against his belly. He doesn’t think of other things—won’t let himself.

_It’s nice_ was an understatement though. It’s so much more than nice. He’s needed this, wanted this, for such a long time. Even if _this_ is all it is—the two of them spooned together in his bed until morning.

She snuggles a bit closer, slips a small, cold foot between his legs. He thinks about her pale pink toenails, he thinks about Dulcinea, he thinks about being number sixteen on a list he’s sure he was never meant to read. He adds to his mixtape the sound of her hum when his thumb brushes the rose-petal skin of her arm.

“Foxtrot,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Hmmm?” He nudges the back of her head with his nose.

“Nothing,” she chuckles, “Just a passing thought…”

“Can’t have passing thoughts without sharing. Bedroom rules.” It’s strange how natural this feels, bantering with her in his bedroom, pretending this sort of thing happens often enough that rules have been made.

“Oh, in that case, maybe I’ll…” She makes to leave, pushing away covers and beginning to pull from his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, tugging her back, wasting no time in snuggling her in even closer, wrapping himself around her like a question mark, which seems almost comically apropos on a night like this. She giggles, just barely, but it’s perfection, the sound of Scully giggling in his bed late at night.

“No, it was just…,” she continues, turned serious again. “My father was obsessed with the military phonetic alphabet—Alpha, Bravo, etcetera… He named my brother Charlie. It just occurred to me that if your father had been the same, maybe you’d be Foxtrot instead of Fox.”

He chuckles. “Guess I should count myself lucky then. Would’ve been a lot to live up to in the ballroom classes my mother made me take…” She hums in amusement, and the vibration travels all the way through to his chest. “Sounds like you’re a bit lucky, too. Unless I’m mistaken, it was Dana, not Delta, who snuck into my bed tonight…”

“Hmm,” she ponders, “Maybe Delta’s not as brave as Dana is….” He sometimes thinks nobody’s as brave as Dana Scully is, least of all himself. “Frankly,” she adds, “I always fancied Juliet anyway.”

“Juliet—I like it.” He pictures her out on a balcony, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, lover’s name tumbling from her lips. “You’d need a Romeo…” He doubts _Wherefore art thou, Mulder _is quite what Shakespeare had in mind. 

“Who says I haven’t got one?” she flirts. Her hand rests just inches from his own, and he twines their fingers together, curls them against her abdomen. He sometimes wonders how his heart can possibly contain the amount of love he feels for her. People die of broken hearts; do they ever die of ones so full, they’re overflowing? 

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “What’s got you thinking about all this at…,” he tilts back his head to squint at the clock, “…one o’clock AM?” Her body is warm and impossibly perfect against him.

“I guess…,” she says, a contemplative tone to her voice, “I don’t know. These last few days have been a lot. I’ve been forced to consider things I haven’t thought about in years. My past, the way things used to be… What I used to assume my future looked like.”

“How’d it look?” They’re both nearing that point these days, where their paths can’t just keep continuing in the same straight line. They’re nearing a fork, he can feel it. Question is, will they both continue in the same direction?

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I was surrounded by Navy men, Navy wives, Navy families. We were taught call letters before learning our ABC’s. I always felt that sort of life was expected of me, too.” His air conditioner kicks on, fills the room with a gentle whirr. She burrows even closer. “It’s just funny how far we stray from what’s expected…”

“No more call letters, huh?” His lips catch on her hair as he talks. It’s wonderful.

“No, I guess not…To be honest, I sort of miss them. Things were simpler then. There were right choices and wrong choices, or at least it seemed that way.”

He realizes as they lie there that this moment is the fork in his path. That though the line between right and wrong choices may be blurred these days, there’s one choice he’s never once questioned. Dana Scully is the rightest choice he’s ever made. With her mouth full of questions and her head full of answers, her ever-arched eyebrow and her ever-open heart—she’s been his choice, his _only_ choice, from the very beginning. 

Scully is the Juliet to his Romeo—hell, she’s the Delta to his Foxtrot. 

“Scully,” he murmurs, heart beating bravely in his chest, “Have I ever told you about the Fox Mulder alphabet?”

“Hmm, let me guess…” There’s humor in her voice, that wry Scully humor he adores. “A is for Alien, B is for Bounty Hunter, C is for…. Am I close?” Christ, but he loves this woman.

He pokes her gently in admonishment, answers, “Good try, smartypants, but no… No, you’re actually not close at all.”

“Tell me then, Mulder.” She pulls their hands up to rest beneath her cheek. “Tell me about your alphabet.” 

And so he does. He takes a deep breath and he does.

He begins at the beginning_._ _A is for Apple_.

He tells her how watching her eat an apple once made him ache for her, how he can’t bite into a Red Delicious, or a Fuji, or even a Grannysmith anymore without thinking about her lips.

It scares him, being this honest, but there’s something in the air tonight, something in her mood, in the way she slipped off her skirt and climbed into his bed after falling asleep on his couch.

She’s quiet while he speaks, still—eerily so. Her breaths fall quickly against his hand. He’s sure he can feel her heart beating, or maybe that’s just his own, pounding much too dramatically within his chest. There’s a lump in his throat as he finishes, the _No_ that’s terrified him for close to seven years dangling above like an anvil from some misguided Loony Tunes short. 

He waits. And he waits. And is about to apologize for assumptions he shouldn’t have made when—

“More,” she breathes.

Not _no_. _More_.

He burrows his nose in her hair, presses a kiss of relief to her ear.

He gives her more, he gives her everything—he pours his entire heart out into silly little stories about a basketball game, about candlelight illuminating the skin of her back. The words spill out more quickly than he intends them to, but the dam has been breached; he cannot stop it.

She’s quiet through the basketball game, quiet again through the candles. Her little body doesn’t move. He understands. He knows it’s a lot to take in—the flood-like musings of Fox Mulder’s mind. Her ears are all he asks of her tonight.

By the time he’s reached _D_ though, she gives him more than her ears. “D is for Dana,” he begins softly. And instead of more silence, she whispers his name. 

By _E_, there are tears at her cheek. He wonders for an instant whether that long-ago jewelry store could possibly still be open, whether she’d wait for him here while he makes a quick trip. 

By_ F, _she’s pressing barely-there kisses to his knuckles. Friends don’t do that, he’s sure. Their relationship may be uncertain, but friends don’t press kisses to knuckles, they don’t lie in beds at one in the morning, tell stories in hushed whispers with backs pressed to chests.

By_ G, _she’s murmuring _my God _against his palm, _Mulder_ against each of his fingertips. His basement globe spins and it spins. Never could it have predicted an adventure like this.

_H… I… J_… Her toes slide along his shins, they follow the curves of his arches. Her long-lost jacket hangs nestled in his closet not ten feet away.

_K…_ “New Year’s Eve, Scully… That kiss…” He tells her she’s all he could want from this millennium, or the next, or even the next (_that’s illogical_, _Mulder_, he expects her to say). She doesn’t though. She doesn’t say that. Instead, she turns in his arms, raises big, wet eyes up to his.

“Keep going…,” she urges him on when he pauses, “Please, Mulder, keep going.” Her fingers tremble as they move across his chest.

And so he keeps going. _L… _(“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully,” he breathes)_… M… N_… With each new letter, her touches grow surer—small, gentle hands find his ribs, his shoulders, the wildly-beating pulse at his neck. By _O_, those same hands are in his hair, they’re cradling his cheekbones, they’re fingering the soft, curved shells of his ears.

_P… _“That plum,” he whispers, “…the juice…your thumb…” Her thumb (the same one he sucked into his mouth so many months ago) skims over his stubbled chin, makes its tentative way to his lips. His tongue steals out for a taste, and she sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She drags her hand away before he can swallow her whole.

_Q_… (“Dulcinayyy-uhhh,” he sings quietly)…_ R_… The heat of her breath hits his neck, hovers beneath his jawline until he can barely speak. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when he falters. Her mouth slides against his throat and he groans.

_S… T…_ By _U_, he can’t keep from touching her. A hand tangles finally in her hair, the other slips beneath her sweater and molds to the warmth of her back. She whimpers, her body arching sharply against him. Umpteen is the number of times this very scenario has played itself out in his dreams.

By _V_, his lips are at her temple, “V is for Volume” spoken directly against her skin. She turns the dial all the way to the left, sighs so softly he almost misses it.

_W _and_ X_ fall between kisses, his lips on her eyelids, at her jaw, wrapped around the lobes of her ears. Barely-there whimpers slip from the back of her throat, and he reaches for that imaginary recorder, adds them to his mixtape as well. Her legs tangle with his and he pulls her even closer.

“Y is for Yawn,” he murmurs against her hairline, “Tonight, out there, while we sat on the couch…”

“I’m not…,” her voice is low and husky, so close to his ear that he shivers, “…m’not yawning now, Mulder…”

He shifts, rests his forehead against her own. Hot, ragged breaths collect on the pillow between them. He can hardly believe a few hours ago, they were out on his couch drinking tea, a few years ago, they were meeting in the basement for the very first time.

“What about…,” she breathes, the tip of her nose nudging his, “What about Z?” Their hands roam freely now, sensuous and slow. She angles her pelvis against his, presses softly.

“Z…,” he barely gets out, “…is for Zipper.” She’s trembling against him, and it’s the sexiest thing in the world. “The zipper from your skirt that woke me half an hour ago, the zipper that—”

She swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, body melting against his.

Her lips, her tongue, the flutter of her fingers at his cheek… He forgets about candles, about earrings, about Rick Channing and Don Quixote and even about the wristwatch lying just across the room on the dresser. He forgets about everything in the world except Scully and her mouth, about the way she kisses him with her whole damn body, with hands in his hair and toes flexed at his shins and hips arched so divinely against his, he worries he’ll faint.

As her sweater slides over her head, he marvels at the way everything has fallen into place, how a crisp, juicy apple led to a basketball game, how sleepy, sexy yawns led to the undoing of zippers, how all of it combined led to them being here, now, discovering each other for the very first time.

Their lovemaking is slow, achingly so. It’s the Standard English Alphabet, the Military Phonetic Alphabet, and the Fox Mulder Alphabet combined—whimpers and sighs and Romeo and Juliet and ice cream and globes and… Amazingly, in the end, it all makes perfect, wonderful sense.

As they move together, the beginnings of a new alphabet emerge in his head—_A_ for the arc of her hips as they rise; _B_ for her short, quickened breaths; _C_ for her cries, for her moans, for her whines; _D_ for the softest derriere he’s ever held in his palms; _E_ for her elbows, laid either side of his ears; _F_ for fuck, for _oh holy fuck, Scully, sweetheart, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…_

“It’s crazy really, isn’t it?” he murmurs afterwards, Scully tucked beneath his arm, her leg slung sweetly over his sweat-damp thigh.

“Hmm?” Her fingers play at his lips, trace over and around and between. 

“That it took us seven years…,” he mumbles around a pinky, “…when in the end, it really was as easy as learning our ABC’s.”

She hums, presses a kiss to his chest right above a nipple. “You could have had me all the way back at C if you’d wanted to, Mulder…”

He smiles, pulling her impossibly closer. Her breasts are soft against his chest and her chin rests at his shoulder, and for a moment, all is right in their windmill-riddled, impossible dream of a world. 

“I think Z was perfect,” he says, kissing the disheveled part of her hair, “Absolutely perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a fun ride, you guys! I appreciate all of you so much for reading along the way, for sending me wonderful, encouraging comments that kept me motivated! My readers are the absolute best, and I wouldn't continue writing without the support of all of you! I truly hope this final chapter has been worth the wait until Z!


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